


Sleights of Hand

by apfelgranate



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Emotional Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: “You don’t have to do that,” Shiro breathes when his thumb slips in-between her panties and skin, over the soft rasp of downy hair that reaches down from her belly button. “You don’t have to prove a point—”“Maybe I fucking want to.” Pidge leans forward, eyes glinting like amber. “Maybe I want to come on your goddamn alien robot fingers.”—A coda to S6E1 Omega Shield.





	Sleights of Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This exists in part because certain delightful people wanted alien robot arm fingering, and in other parts because this show can't expect me to watch countless scenes of Shiro' hand glowing being shown as capital D dangerous and then pretend like Pidge full-on _grabbing_ that glowing hand wouldn't have consequences.
> 
> Sidenote on that 'aged up characters' tag for completeness' sake: It doesn't really come up in the fic, so you're free to imagine their ages how you prefer. I personally hc Pidge as the youngest of the paladins at the low end of 18-19 at this point, while Shiro's somewhere in the middle to mid-late 20s.

“Can you feel this?”

Pidge watches him over the tops of his fingers. Her lips skim over the ball of his thumb, find the center of his palm. Press a kiss into it. The sensation is slightly… off, compared to his flesh-and-blood hand, feels like she’s kissing it through a glove, but he feels it. 

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers. His voice is choked; it hurts him to admit and he doesn’t know why—

He does; he does. Pidge’s left hand is still bandaged. Still healing. The hand she’s holding in her uninjured one is the one that burned through her armor and melted her flesh halfway down to the bone. They’d both been numb with pain when the others had found them.

They still don’t know what was—is—wrong with him.

“Hey.” Gentle. Teeth against the edge of his palm, just as gentle. “Stay with me?”

“I’m here. I’m here.” It’s not quite a lie. Mostly because he doesn’t remember the event itself, only the aftermath. The actual memories are all pain and fog. His imagination is another matter, but the weight of Pidge’s gaze on him manages to pin him to the bed, in the here and now.

The warm, living weight of her in his lap, too. He curls his left hand carefully over her hip, below her open shirt, thumb stroking along the angle of her hip bone. Touching her is like an anchor, regardless which of his hands is doing the touching. She guides him down from her mouth, over the tendons in her throat, collarbones, sternum, ribs. He wonders how it feels to her, this strange construction of alien alloys meant for killing; he doesn’t remember if she ever told him—but these days that doesn’t mean much.

And down she slides their tangled fingers, down, down—down…

“You don’t have to do that,” he breathes when his thumb slips in-between her panties and skin, over the soft rasp of downy hair that reaches down from her belly button. “You don’t have to prove a point—”

“Maybe I fucking want to.” Pidge leans forward, eyes glinting like amber. “Maybe I want to come on your goddamn alien robot fingers.” Her hips wriggle a little, grind her cunt against his cock through their underwear. Shiro’s lips are parted around a gasp when her mouth meets his. She kisses him hungrily, fucks her tongue into him. It leaves him dizzy. It always does.

Shiro’s alien robot hand lies trapped between their bellies, where it might do irreparable damage if it were activated. The thought of it, the maelstrom of fear that waits behind it, has his heart rate speed and stutter. The way Pidge is looking at him, with her eyes big and dark and intent, kicks it up another notch.

“Katie—" Her name comes out like a plea, though he doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

“There’s not a single inch of you that scares me,” she says. Quiet, forceful.

It steals his air. The sob that was climbing up his throat dies silently. He aches all the way down to the marrow of his bones with how much he wants to believe her.

Pidge waits him out as he tries to breathe around the lump in his throat. Her expression remains intense, but her fingers find his throat, moving in tender caresses. Along the lines of his arteries, into the dip of his collarbones, over the soft spots below his ears that always leave him trembling.

“ _Katie_.” Still a plea. But now it has intent, and Pidge’s lids lower to hood her eyes.

“I’m here.”

When she pushes herself up again, right hand on his shoulder, left hand resting palm-up on the bow of his ribcage, he nudges his fingers lower. Her hips lift off of his lap, and he touches curls and wetness. 

Pidge mouth grows wide with a smile, teeth digging into her lower lip.

Shiro wants to taste it. He leans up to kiss her just as his forefinger slips between her folds and finds her clit. Her smile twitches; she giggles, she kisses him back, she moves into the touch of his fingers without restraint.

Like she truly isn’t afraid. Like she’s got enough certainty for both of them.

Molten heat washes through Shiro. A slow and overwhelming force, like a flow of lava working its way down toward the sea. Together, they manage to wrangle Pidge’s panties down her legs without disentangling. When he finally slides two fingers into her, she makes a low, pleased noise that slithers through his ears, down his spine, and settles hotly between his thighs. He curves his palm to give her something to grind against and she does, again, without reservation.

She's wet, good on her way to dripping. He can feel that, too. Although he has no idea how the galra managed to construct this kind of sensitivity, or why they would even _care_ to, and he’s not grateful for it, not for any of what they did to him but right now—right now, it makes his blood _sing_.

Pidge keeps kissing him, messy, open-mouthed things that scour his lips and chin and jaw, his throat, his chest. He does his best to hold on in the face of her hunger, wraps his free, his human arm around her waist and holds her close.

“I meant it,” she says. Her voice is rough with pleasure, but her tone is gentle. “You're not a monster.”

“How—” His eyes sting. He blinks, swallows, opens his mouth to keep speaking, and nothing but wet wordless noise leaves it.

“You talk in your sleep, sometimes,” she murmurs into the skin of his neck. Her kisses cease their roaming atop his jugular.

“Do you want to stop?”

Shiro clenches his eyes shut against the tears but he can already taste salt, and knows it isn’t Pidge’s sweat. His chest feels too hot and too full, like it's about to burst. His skin is raw. Vulnerable.

And his fingers, inside of her—it feels like touching a star.

“I want to make you come,” he whispers. “Please.”

Her breath trembles against his jaw.

“Do it, _do it_ —” The words leave Pidge on a helpless snarl. She clenches around his fingers, the muscles in her belly jump. Shiro tightens his grip around her waist and hauls her closer so she’s nigh straddling his chest and he can angle his wrist the way he needs to.

He doesn’t trust half his memories these days, but _Pidge_ trusts him to remember. To remember what she likes. What will make her shake with pleasure.

It’s enough.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pidge spits. The pillow next to his head dents sharply as her right fist slams into it. “Fuck, _Shiro—_ ”

It’s enough, and he does remember. The fast, shallow motions, the friction of his broad palm, his thumb curled in and dragging past her clit.

He thinks he might still be crying, but it doesn’t matter now. He kisses her sternum and doesn’t stop the movement of his hand, of his fingers. Open-mouthed, the thrum of her rabid heartbeat hits his tongue.

She’s close.

Her left arm snakes around his neck, the rasp of bandages over his nape, her breath hits his temple, both so hot it nearly burns him. His name falls from her mouth. Hers from his.

When she comes, he feels it _everywhere_. All her muscles clenching up, voice going sharp and thin, sheets straining in her grip beneath his back, the thunderous pulse of her cunt bearing down on his fingers.

His fingers, his hand—that tool made for destruction, and it feels like her pleasure might just crush it. Melt it down. Forge it into something new. It’s heat and light, racing up his arm through veins that no longer carry blood to spill into his chest.

“Oh g-god,” he gasps, and then Pidge’s left arm gives out. She drops, rolls sideways, and Shiro follows her as closely as he can; still he slips from her but her right hand catches him, the nape of his neck. Pulls him in. 

“You’re crying,” she whispers, “Shiro, you’re _crying—_ ”

Shiro kisses her because he can’t not. There is light inside him, something so bright it seems it should pierce through his skin. And inside that light, a quivering sliver of certainty. So much more than he’s had in what feels like years, and even if it disappears when the haze of desire leaves him… for now, he has it. He knows who he is, he remembers, he _remembers—_

“I am,” he manages in between kisses, “I am, it’s alright, you didn’t trigger anything, I love you so much—”

Pidge is looking up at him with wide eyes, face flushed pink, strands of hair sticking to her skin with sweat. “What’s… happening to you right now?” she asks slowly, a little dazed. Shiro’s smile makes his cheeks hurt.

“Good things,” he says softly. Nameless, heady, things. Things he doesn’t wish to loose. He draws his hand—alien, but _his_ —over the inside of her thighs, through her damp curls, into the dip of her navel, fingers dancing between her breasts. It leaves a gleaming trail, a treasure map of places he plans to lay his lips to.

Pidge’s chest quivers. She catches his wrist in a gentle grasp and traces her nails along the line where his artery would run; Shiro shudders in turn and she smirks, corner of her mouth tilting up.

“That’s good,” she says. “I… I wasn’t entirely sure you’d be up for this.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” he admits. “Now, I am.”

“So you’re good to keep going? Because I _was_ planning to return the favor…”

Shiro’s breath leaves him on a small moan. The offer is tempting—Pidge is skilled with her fingers, always has been, and she keeps finding new ways to make him keen. But his hunger bleeds from his hand and mouth still, and it is _ravenous_.

“I’d like to make you come first,” he says. “Again—” he lifts his fingers to his face, “—and again—” they’re slick turning to sticky, “—and again.” He sucks the first two into his mouth to wet them. “Please?”

Pidge’s grip around his wrist goes bruise-tight.

“Y-yeah,” she grits out, “yeah, okay, _okay_ , we can do that.”

Few minutes later, Shiro’s tongue is sliding in between his prosthetic fingers, in between the folds of Pidge’s cunt. Her hand is tangled in his bangs, her fingers twitch and curl against his hairline, curses and sweet talk spill from her lips; all of it washes over him as benediction.

She tastes like a star, bright liquid heat and alien iron.

She tastes like a star, and he’s not afraid.


End file.
